Into the Woods
by Nearly headless Natalie
Summary: Sometimes the path less traveled does make all the difference.
1. Part One

((Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling or Warner Brothers. If I did, Snape would be alive, and the movies would be a lot cooler. Or at least missing a lot of Quidditch scenes. But alas.

This story was written actually about a year ago, but I never added it. Originally, this story was to be called "The Calling" and would be one story in a collection. This never panned out, so I'm just posting it as is, a two-shot.

Rated PG for some scary concepts and very, very mild innuendo.))

**Into the Woods**

by Nearly headless Natalie

_Into the woods, and out of the woods, and home before dark!_

--Lyrics from the musical _Into the Woods_

With a long, critical stare down into the drawer, Tarik, the manager of the pub nodded his head with begrudging approval and decided that, for a Thursday, it had been a very lucrative evening indeed. Valmir's wife had just given birth to their first child. Needless to say, the festivities were endless, the happy father sleeping on the bar counter as contentedly as his wife at home with the newborn certainly was not. There also was that strange Englishman in the corner, who had spent his night slowly drinking through pints and never so much as swaying. Tarik snorted. He thought that it had to be the horrible English food which kept his constitution so hardy.

A moment later, however, Tarik frowned. No matter how pleasant it was to have the Englishman's steady contributions to the money in the drawer (his wife had a tendency to have babies as well), he felt unnerved. Certainly, the Englishman looked about as dull as the rest of his countrymen--pale features, long nose, and twitchy eyes. But there was something undeniably different about this man, as though he were exuding an indescribable force from the tips of his boring unpolished brown shoes to top of his nondescript brown hair. Tarik had been in business long enough to instinctively rate and measure his customers the moment they stepped into the pub. The Englishman radiated with unspoken trouble.

It was a quarter after eleven now, and someone was rousing the now drooling and snoring new father. With a day of work ahead for the people of the village, not many would be frequenting the pub tonight. But still, the Englishman sat, watching nothing and everything with his inscrutable twitchy stare.

One of the barmaids, the manager's oldest daughter, Dafina, slipped over to the Englishman, her face alight with her well-trained smile. She asked the man something, presumably about wanting another drink. The Englishman blinked for a minute and then slowly shook his head in the affirmative. That had been another surprise--the few foreigners had been in the pub before usually never spoke a word of Albanian. It was always up to Tarik's sketchy hold of English to give the customer what he wanted, be it directions or a drink (usually the most expensive one possible, if the unfortunate victim seemed to have a purse full of _lekes_ and a limited understanding of how much was being spent). The Englishman, however, seemed to let the words wash over him in dull incomprehension, blink several times, suddenly realize what was being said, and reply quite fluently. It only added to Tarik's uneasiness.

His daughter, the well-trained flirt that she was, playfully scooped up his empty pint and promptly came back with another, the foam bobbing like an unsteady buoy in a sea of beer. As she sat it down on the table, a rather tipsy celebrator, who was still laboring under the assumption that the congratulatory party was still rolling, bumped into her. He watched with frozen horror as the pint (_that's a waste of good money!_ his brain screamed) flew from her hand and towards the lap of the strange Englishman.

Tarik blinked. When he opened his eyes the pint was sitting primly on the table, the froth still foaming obliviously, unaware that it had broken nearly every law of gravity that Tarik had ever known.

Dafina, who had been berating the staggering man quite fluently, turned to apologize to the Englishman and gave the pint a startled glance. The man turned his bland stare to her, murmured something softly, and returned to his pint as if nothing had happened.

Tarik, torn between instinctual superstition and his love of extra coins in his purse, turned away from the Englishman and looked forlornly out the window. The sight was not a welcoming one. In the midst of Albanian summer, which should have been dry and warm, a misty fog had settled into the town--and not just for a quick weekend trip. No, the fog had been hanging nearly incessantly for several unnatural years. It had become apart of the town as much as the pub had, hovering like an unwanted, overprotective parent, slowing smothering them of youth and life.

Tarik despised it, wishing with all his heart for a deep comforting sunburn.

The woods to the south of the village had also not thrived under the fog. While the trees were still growing and spreading normally, the leaves seemed thinner, more transparent, as if an abnormal autumn had overtaken the landscape and entirely removed summer from the calendar.

Those woods used to be cheerful and bright, a place where Tarik could bring his sons to fish in the stream and watch his daughters weave flower crowns. It had been a place of laughter and ease, away from the pub.

But not anymore…not since…

Tarik shivered. He would not think of it. He would not think of that face, its mouth gaping in terror, its bulging eyes staring at something invisible and unthinkable but _real_, just beyond the curling talons of fog that beckoned and threatened the unwary to come and see what lay beyond in the unfathomable dark--

When Tarik heard a throat being cleared behind him, he couldn't help but jump.

It was only the Englishman, standing nonchalantly at the bar, blinking his dull stare. Disturbingly dull stare.

"Yes?" Tarik asked, uneasily, "How can I help you, sir?"

The Englishman gave him a smile (after processing what Tarik had said, with that thoroughly blank look) that might have been meant to be reassuring. Instead, Tarik had the oddest desire to pick up his cashbox and run without looking back.

"I wondered," the man asked cautiously, "If you had lived in his town for long?"

Tarik mentally cursed himself. There was nothing wrong with this man--well, excluding the blankness he exerted in every step that he took. That simply wasn't natural. And there was that pint…

"Been here for years," Tarik answered noncommittally, "Since Dafina--" he gestured to his curvaceous daughter, who was skillfully and politely declining the advances of a customer while playfully convincing him to buy yet another drink "--was a baby."

The man nodded, as if pleased. "Then you know this town well?"

"Yes," Tarik answered warily, picking up a glass and cleaning it with a towel, not noticing that he had just cleaned it moments ago.

"Then you can tell me about the forest, then."

Immediately, Dafina uttered a shrill little cry, the man who had passed out on the counter long before jerked his head up in bleary interest, conversation halted, and Tarik--a man known for his stringent economy--dropped an expensive glass on the ground and didn't pay it a bit of notice.

He stared at the man in front of him, with his unconcerned expression, as he felt his blood slowly drain out of his face. He barely noticed that his hands were shaking.

"You should not ask about the forest," Tarik choked out, after a moment, a mere strangled whisper.

"Why not?" the man calmly asked.

Tarik nodded to Dafina to continue what she was doing. The drunk flopped his head back down on the counter. Slowly, conversations began again, suspicious glances continually flicking toward the Englishman.

"Because," Tarik replied, in English, "The forest is…is…" He struggled with his limited vocabulary to describe it. "_Bad_." The word was ineffective in the extreme, but it was all he could manage.

"Why would you think that?" the man asked.

Tarik struggled to place his thoughts together in English, resorting back to Albanian when he could not grasp the proper word. "The forest has a bad--no, an evil presence. About ten years ago, toward the end of summer, we heard horrible noises in the forest. The animals, they were--_shrieking_. We did our best to ignore it, thinking that it was just another creature on the hunt…but then the fog came. And the cold weather. And the forest was silent and still. A few people that were brave enough to venture in the forest a few weeks later found scores of animals…dead. They weren't bitten or strangled or shot…they were just…dead. The animals were dissected, and…there was no cause of death. They were just--dead." Tarik gulped. The Englishman blinked indifferently. It was all Tarik could do not to reach across the bar and throttle him.

"What's your name, sir?" Tarik asked coldly.

"Quirrell," he answered, "Quirinus Quirrell."

"Mr. Quirrell," Tarik continued, "That was the last time any one…_normal_ came out from the forest."

"Normal?" Quirrell asked slowly.

Tarik took a deep steadying breath. "Eight years ago--a boy--a foolish boy decided to go into the woods on a dare. Alone. At night. We heard his screaming in the night…the next morning he walked into town…his eyes were glazed over, nearly popping out of his head…his mouth was open, as though he were screaming, but…but nothing would come out. He just stood shaking in the street, looking around at us…"

He exhaled shakily. "He didn't speak for a year. Then, without warning, he went in the forest again and no one has seen him since."

Quirrell listened to the news with a simple nod. "I understand. And you have no idea what this…presence might be?"

Tarik looked steadily at the man in front of him. "Mr. Quirrell, I do not _want_ to know. _No one_ wants to know. And if you are going to continue to ask about the forest, you can leave."

Quirrell looked at him calmly. Then, he drew the correct coinage for his last drink--the pint that miraculously landed on the table--and nodded his head. "Thank you for your assistance."

Without a word more, the mysterious Englishman swept out of the pub, leaving Tarik with only a shiver of an unspoken fear to comfort him.

Quirinus Quirrell had quickly learned his lot in life. There were people that were universally adored by all, admired for their unending values and talents. Quirrell, who had been a few years younger than James Potter and Sirius Black, the princes of Gryffindor, saw them as the perfect example for such heraldry. There were also people who gained almost universal disdain, hatred, and mockery for all their attempts. One Severus Snape, the brunt of nearly every Marauder prank, could be placed in that infamous category. However, Quirrell could claim neither of these places, but instead lurked in a place in between the cracks. He was so common and dull that no one thought to dislike him--or like him, for that matter. He was a man with no attributes whatsoever, a man that, at his funeral, everyone would have lovely, vague things to say but actually remember nothing about him. To put it frankly, Quirrell was boring.

When he was young, it didn't bother him. His parents, both magical, felt sure that he would find his niche when he could attend a wizarding school. But Hogwarts years passed, without a glimmer of acknowledgment to brighten the lonely young wizard's days. Disliked and loved by none, Quirrell, a Ravenclaw, spent his days in obscurity, reading in the library. By the time he graduated, Quirrell gained only the innocuous description of "nice," a bland description of a bland person.

What a nice man, that Quirinus Quirrell. What a nice, boring man. What a nice, boring, forgotten man.

Quirrell had developed a strong hated for the word "nice."

He thought he had impressed Dumbledore with his knowledge of the Dark Arts. The Headmaster, straining his aged brain to remember the former Ravenclaw, remarked that he did not recall Quirrell having a particular ability at the Dark Arts.

Quirrell, at the time, smiled politely and said nothing. Just as a nice, boring, forgotten man should do.

Standing in the front of the forest, nearly obscured by the fog, it made his blood boil.

Dumbledore had sent him out for practical experience. Ha! As if he, who had tirelessly read every Dark Arts book he could grasp, who existed for the DADA classes in Hogwarts, who lived and breathed werewolves, Boggarts, and--his specialty--trolls, would need practical experience. He had covered the ground Dumbledore had suggested (more like commanded, with a smile, a twinkle, and an offering of candy) to him, chatting with giants in the mountains, interviewing a vampire in Italy (while drinking some very questionable red wine…he tried not to remember that), and--naturally--helping out villages with their troll difficulties. Oh yes, Quirrell needed practical experience. He needed practical experience like Snape needed another cauldron.

His interest peaked, however, at some of the stories he had heard about a little village in Albania, a village blanketed by a thick, forbidding fog and haunted by a creature in the woods of untold evil. He had been there for a week, Disillusioned, watching the Muggles, determining where he could acquire the information he needed. He then went nightly to the pub, charming all the alcohol to evaporate from his body on contact with his stomach. Then, with the Translation Charm also firmly in place, Quirrell was able to listen to the conversations of villagers huddled over half-drunk pints.

Quirrell had assumed that the fog was caused by nothing more than a deranged wizard who decided to retire there and wished for the inhabitants to keep away. But the story the pub owner had told him made this assumption seem too innocent.

There were rumors, of course. Not a single witch or wizard had heard of _him_ since that fateful All Hallow's Eve night. His followers were either hiding, lying, or raving in Azkaban, and their leader had disappeared from all wizarding knowledge. And there was a creature of great power living in a distant forest in Albania, surviving off the souls of animals and casting an evil air around the town.

Curious, indeed.

"Does this count as practical experience, Dumbledore?" Quirrell asked softly, staring into the depths of the twilight forest, "Would you like a teacher who faced He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named and lived to tell the tale?"

For a brief moment, his eyes flashed a headline across the _Prophet_: "Teacher Defies Dark Lord!" It was beautiful, breathtaking--a moment of glory that had been denied him for too long.

Nice, boring, forgotten Quirrell was going to earn his just recognition at last.

Without a glance behind him, Quirrell entered the forest.

((This was a one-shot, but I divided it up into two parts. I'll be adding the Quirrell/Voldemort interaction in the next section.

Some notes: No, I've never been to Albania, but I looked up usual regular weather paterns and such...so this would be unusual weather for the country.  
Tarik, Valmir, and Dafina are also common Albanian names, apparently. So my computer tells me so. Also, _lekes_ is the correct currency of Albania.

This story is also based on the theory that Dumbledore SENT Quirrell to have some more experience in the field, so he could keep Quirrell as DADA for more than a year (assuming that he taught half a year of DADA and then returned the beginning of Harry's year). Perhaps Dumbledore's way around Voldemort's jinx on the position? In any case, that is NOT canon, so I thought I would explain myself. In addition, Quirrell is also in Dumbledore's employ before, as a Muggle Studies teacher, according to HP Lexicon.))


	2. Part Two

((Disclaimer still counts. Thanks for reading!))

Into the Woods Continued

_You're so nice. You're not good, you're not bad, you're just nice_

--Lyrics from _Into the Woods_

As the trees enclosed him and the familiar lights of the town were drowned in the brambles and the thick fog, the young man suddenly realized why this forest seemed so eerily familiar; the waves of unspoken magic that swelled in a silent, stirring symphony of power were like those in the Forbidden Forest. The Forbidden Forest also had a mysterious magic reverberating from its silent, omniscient trees, a magic of both good and evil. This force, which was settling into a frigid cold in Quirrell's bones, was nothing _but_ pure evil.

The deeper the young man went into the forest, the thicker the fog became. Normally, he would have likened it to the age-old description of pea soup or chowder. But this fog exerted its malevolent purposes too strongly for such a harmless description. It somehow had a life of its own, and Quirrell swore he could see hands, fingers, and eyes in the fog, leading him, guiding him, trapping him. The once smirking Quirrell was now grasping his wand tightly, his eye twitching uneasily. Even the _Prophet_'s headline was beginning to fade in the midst of all the malicious fog.

Just as Quirrell's last vestiges of courage and desires of glory faded out, he blindly fell over a tree root, slamming down on his knees into the dirt. With a muttered curse, he turned to look at the tree in question and only saw a young man unlike any Quirrell had ever seen and ever wanted to see again.

He was long and slim, more skin and bones than much else. A ragged pair of pants clung to his shins, as though he had outgrown them some time long ago, above a pair of dirt encrusted sneakers. With a baggy shirt and a brown threadbare cloak, the young man reminded Quirrell fleetingly of the main character in a book he had read in his Muggle Studies class, Robinson Crusoe; the young man seemed to have been cut off from civilization long ago. The young man stared down at him with a blank expression (Quirrell recognized that the young man was under the Imperious Curse) and dragged him to his feet. He nodded to Quirrell to follow him.

"Where--where are we g--going?" Quirrell asked. He nearly cursed out loud. He always stuttered when nervous. It was a terrible habit he'd been trying to break for years.

The boy did not answer and only looked at Quirrell with horribly blank eyes. Then, after a moment's hesitation, Quirrell followed him.

While it would have taken weeks for Quirrell to have found the trail through the fog, the boy appeared to know the woods well. He did not hesitate between paths, nor lose himself in the fog. Quirrell nearly had to dash to keep up with the boy.

Abruptly, the boy stopped, as though struck by lightning.

"What is it?" Quirrell asked nervously.

He turned to Quirrell robotically and pointed.

Following the boy's outstretched hand, Quirrell felt his knees turn to pudding and his insides give a horrible twist of terror.

Seated on an inauspicious tree trunk, in the very center of the fog cloud, almost as though he himself was the eye, was the dreaded Dark Lord.

He was transparent, almost ghost-like. Yet, at the same time, there was an indescribable…solidness to him, a vitality that did not belong to any ghost Quirrell had ever seen. While it was clear that the Dark Lord was far from his strongest form, he was no doubt alive.

While his skin was an unhealthy grayish-white color, his eyes, which were slanted and red, gleamed in the darkness like a nocturnal animal. With a slit for a nose, unnaturally serpentine facial-structure, and long spidery hands, Quirrell wondered if the Dark Lord still qualified as a human being.

His red eyes stared Quirrell from head to foot. Then, they locked with his eyes and, for the life of him, Quirrell could not look away. There something hypnotic about the depths of the eyes, something beautiful and horrible that he could not quite describe. He felt his breath stop momentarily until the Dark Lord's eyes narrowed into a look of deep disdain. Quirrell only hoped that he would not lose control of his bladder before his likely death.

"Well," He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named remarked frostily, "It's a bit late for a social call, but I will do my best to accommodate you, worthless, sniveling excuse of a wizard you are."

Quirrell's throat felt like it was stuffed with liquorish wands. Not only was breathing difficult, but speaking was impossible. He settled on continuing to gape at the half-alive, half-dead (man? Quirrell brain inconsequentially wondered, creature?) being in front of him.

The Dark Lord gave Quirrell another long, scornful stare. "I suppose you must have a reason for visiting me on this inauspicious occasion, Mr…"

"Qu-Quirrell," he managed to stammer out, "Qu-Quirinus Qu-Quirrel."

"Well Mr. _Qu-Quirrell_," the Dark Lord sneered, imitating his stutter to perfection, "What brings you to the middle of this cursed Albanian woods?"

Perhaps it had been the direct jeer of Quirrell's stutter. Or maybe it was the Dark Lord's lack of open hostility against him (_you have the power, here, Quirrell_, his ambitious little voice whispered_, you have a body!_). Or perhaps a moment of temporary insanity caused Quirrell to blurt out, "I came to show up Albus Dumbledore."

The Dark Lord's red eyes widened ever so slightly. Then, a moment later, giving only a minute squeak of resistance, Quirrell felt his mind being filtered and studied with swift, indifferent hands, sorting through his school years, his travels abroad, his teaching…

Abruptly, the flashing images stopped, leaving Quirrell feeling like he had just done more loop-de-loops on a broomstick than what was ordinarily healthy.

The Dark Lord looked him over again…but was that look…appraising?

"You teach at Hogwarts," he said. It was not a question, but a statement.

"Yes," Quirrell answered, "I--I teach De-Defense A-Against the D-Dark Arts."

The slits in place of the Dark Lord's nose opened slightly, followed by what could have been a snort. Quirrell vaguely wondered if the dark wizard was laughing at his inability or his stutter. It didn't seem to be a good time to ask

"And Dumbledore sent you…here?" the Dark Lord carefully asked.

Quirrell bristled. "No--rather, he sent me to get more--more practical experience." Quirrell didn't notice, in his indignation, that he had stopped stuttering. "I've gone on to further studies! I taught Muggle Studies for years, and taught a half a year of DADA with no difficulties! The old man still thinks I'm incompetent!"

The Dark Lord expression never faltered. "Dumbledore underestimates your abilities, then."

"Yes," Quirrell agreed, "Entirely so. Stupid fool must be more senile than I think…he won't even give _Snape_ the Defense Against the--"

"Snape?" the Dark Lord interrupted, a terrible fury crossing his serpentine features.

Quirrell gulped audibly. The Dark Lord had been so…receptive. He had invited Quirrell to talk about his difficulties and listened with…understanding! For a moment, Quirrell had felt as comfortable with the most evil wizard in the world as he had at home with his Great Aunt Ethel--only that there were certainly no scones and tea in the middle of the Albanian forest, naturally. Now, however, Quirrell remembered who this was.

"Y-Yes," Quirrell replied, stammering anew, "He--He teaches P-Potions. For--for nearly e-eleven years now."

The Dark Lord digested this information slowly and then nodded his head, anger temporarily forgotten. "Dumbledore's stooge, now, is he?"

There were many things Quirrell thought about Snape, but stooge was not one of them. "N-no--S-Snape is a bit of a--black sh-sheep in the st-staff room."

"Yes," the Dark Lord murmured, dragging out the word with a hiss which Quirrell pretended not to notice, "Severus never was one for following the crowd. Always the loner."

Quirrell had known that Snape was attracted to the Dark Arts--the man practically oozed of it, just as the grease oozed from his black hair--but was he a former servant of the Dark Lord? Quirrell made a mental note to stay away from the scowling Potion's Master. But, on the other hand, how wonderful it would be to shove this little tête-à-tête in Snape's large, hooked-nose…

He let his thoughts drift from the Dark Lord for too long. Sharply, he glanced at the Dark Lord, who was looking at Quirrell with that familiar aura of appraisal.

"You wish to be treated with respect, Quirrell?" he asked.

Quirrell considered the question a moment before answering. "Yes. Yes, I do. No one believes that I am capable of anything in the Dark Arts. That I'm just a nice, good, boring man that that stammers when he's nervous."

Oddly enough, the all encompassing terror he had felt upon entering the clearing had fled. The Dark Lord was nodding his head with Quirrell's statements, listening to him with…respect. The Dark Lord was listening to Quirinus Quirrell with consideration!

"An interesting choice of words, Quirrell," the Dark Lord remarked, "'Good' and 'nice.' Which are you?"

"Well…both, I suppose," he answered, confused.

"Wrong," the Dark Lord sharply replied, "There are nice people, but there are never _good_ people. Good is a creation of fools who wish to hold back wizarding kind from achieving greatness, who embrace those of sullied blood and cause disagreement and disruptions among proper wizards and witches." The Dark Lord stood for the first time and, in his ghostly form, drifted closer to Quirrell. "Do you know why Salazar Slytherin left Hogwarts, Quirrell?"

The young man stared up at the Dark Lord with deepening perplexity. "Because he…thought that Muggle-borns shouldn't be taught magic?" He felt like a schoolboy back in the classroom again.

"No," the Dark Lord replied, with a sigh, "That is what _they_ want you to think. The argument between Slytherin and Gryffindor wouldn't have happened if the Mudbloods had never been born and never attempted to learn magic. _They_ are the cause of strife, not Slytherin! He was simply standing for the principles Gryffindor clearly had forgotten."

Quirrell, unbeknownst to himself, nodded his head slowly. They all had been wrong about the Dark Lord, he thought to himself. They had told Quirrell in school that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was evil, vicious, and heartless to the core. That wasn't true at all--he merely had different principles than most! He, at least, was able to value someone who merited it, like himself…

"And what of Dumbledore, my lord?" Quirrell asked curiously, not noticing the new address he had given You-Know-Who, "Is he merely misguided in his beliefs or is he a fool?"

The Dark Lord's thin lips turned upwards in a haunting smirk. Quirrell felt a wave of uneasiness rush through him and briefly chill his heart.

"Oh, he's a fool," he murmured, "An _old_ fool. A fool who cannot see an accomplished wizard staring him in the face."

The chill was replaced with a warm rush of pride. An accomplished wizard, indeed!

"Is that what you want?" the Dark Lord asked, "To be ignored, underestimated, forgotten? Or do you really want recognition for being the great wizard that you are?"

"I deserve recognition," he staunchly replied, "But…how can I find it when Dumbledore refuses to acknowledge it?"

"How indeed," the Dark Lord murmured, "How indeed."

Quirrell watched the Dark Lord intently as he floated back to his stump, the fog (which Quirrell had forgotten about during the course of the conversation) drifting around him, caressing the edges of his black robes and cloak.

"Forgive me, my lord," Quirrell said, "But I must ask…you are not a ghost, but not quite solid…what I mean to say is--well--"

"What am I?" the Dark Lord asked, cutting across him, turning his back on the young man. He seemed to ponder the question. "I am not dead, but not alive…I exist spiritually, but not physically…I'm…a _piece_, so to speak, of my former self. I am weak though, Quirrell. I cannot exist without a body for long, and the bodies of animals do not last very long for habitation."

"Is it true that you've…achieved immortality, my lord?"

"I have come very close to achieving immorality, yes," he ambiguously answered, "But I have not quite achieved it in full."

Quirrell considered this, and then considered another piece of information that Dumbledore had given. It had been spoken in passing, before Dumbledore had finally sent him out for the despised practical training. _I'm going to pay a little visit to Nicholas __today. Nicholas Flamel, of course, but you've never met, I assume? We'll be watching Nicholas Flamel's stone next school year, Quirinus. Nicholas and his wife are moving cottages and want the stone to remain secure and protected. And, at the ripe age of six-hundred and sixty-six, Nicholas will need to take his time resetting the wards and such…would you like a lemon drop, Quirinus?_

While the pieces fell together in Quirrell's mind, the Dark Lord, his back turned to Quirrell, considered this unexpected good luck. A teacher at Hogwarts…of the Defense Against the Dark Arts, no less…a very dull, boring, weak little man who was easily manipulated and just as easily disposed of. Obviously Quirrell's mental facilities were less than to be desired…the Dark Lord had already seen the connection between the Stone and his own problem during the first part of the conversation. But, after waiting eleven years in the forest in exile, with only the mute boy meant to do his bidding for company, he could wait a little longer for the connection to be made and for Quirrell to suggest it.

When Quirrell started to speak, the Dark Lord smirked with an expression reminiscent of only Lucifer himself.

"My lord," Quirrell said slowly, the wheels of his ambition grinding steadily in his mind, "What if we were able to ensure that your present form would remain immortal until you could gain physical form?"

Slowly, dramatically, the Dark Lord turned. "'We,' Quirrell? And what would you receive in return for your service?"

"Respect, my lord," Quirrell replied, "And the recognition that has been denied."

The Dark Lord inspected him with his blood-red eyes. Then, with a slow nod, he said, "Kneel."

Quirrell, without pausing to consider, kneeled to the ground. The Dark Lord slowly draped a long-fingered, ghostly hand on the young man's head, in a horrifying parody of a benediction. Quirrell tried to ignore the shudder he felt.

"You, Quirinus Quirrell, will be my servant," the Dark Lord slowly said, his voice resonating throughout the silent woods, "You will help me find a proper body--you will not falter in any directions that I give you--you will not disobey me." He let the words sink in ominously. Then, he continued, "And you will be richly rewarded for your loyalty. Everyone will know of your worth. Everyone will speak of the great servant of the Dark Lord, of the great wizard Quirinus Quirrell."

His being surged with pride and determination. Dumbledore could ignore him all he wanted--the Dark Lord would take care of the old fool. And he would be greater than all the Dark Lord's servants…

"Rise," the Dark Lord commanded, "Now tell me of your plan."

When the fog unexpectedly lifted over the forest two days after his conversation with the Englishman, Tarak did his best not to think about it. He might have been a practical, penny-pinching, world-weary businessman, but he knew of magical stories. And in the stories, it was always the unimportant side character that knew too much that ended up dead in the sewer. So Tarak said nothing to his wife, nor Dafina, nor his other children and did his best to pretend that the fog had never been there at all.

But in his deepest nightmares, which left him dripping with sweat and on the verge of screaming, he remembered the face of the screaming boy that was found dead in the woods a few days after the fog had lifted, his eyes blank , with no discernable cause of death. He remembered the eerie silence of the forest and the aura of strangeness in the trees that lurked for several years thereafter. But most of all he remembered looking out the window the night the fog left and seeing the Englishman walk down the street with a sense of purpose--and a strange shadowy object with glowing red eyes. Tarak only had a glance at the two before closing the drapes with a snap and drinking himself into a stupor. But it was the strange light in the Englishman's eye, which had always been absent before, that made Tarak wake clammy and terrified. It was the look of a mad animal that did not realize that it was mad, that saw only darkness in every corner…it was the light of a deep ambitious evil the likes of which Tarak could only imagine.

He did his best to forget everything else, even the ghostly shade. But Tarak could never look at the seat in the corner without an observable shudder, thinking of the dull Englishman, an inconsequential man who he could scarcely remember yet never forget.


End file.
